Chapter 9
ISABELLA
Two days. Silence. Professional distance, working in his office while he finds reasons to be elsewhere. His gaze sliding past me like I’m furniture. Like he didn’t have his hand on my throat and his mouth half an inch from mine.
All of it an act. I’m good at pretending. Years of playing Ghost taught me that. But this kind of pretending has teeth. It bites down every time I catch him not looking at me.
Sunday morning. Rosa has been in the kitchen since dawn, and the house smells like heaven and garlic and a rich simmer that makes my stomach growl despite everything.
Sunday dinner is mandatory. Cassia explained the tradition yesterday, gentle about it.
Lucia Santoro started it. Rosa maintains it.
Every Santoro at the table, no excuses, no exceptions.
Even me, apparently. Even the hacker who doesn’t belong here.
I’m standing in front of my closet, staring at clothes I don’t remember picking out, when I see them. Three dresses. Pushed to the back, still wrapped in tissue paper, tags attached.
I pull out the first one. Green silk, simple cut.
The second is black, fitted, elegant in a way that makes me uncomfortable just looking at it.
The third is midnight blue. Dark and rich, almost black until the light catches it.
Sweetheart neckline. Fitted waist. Marguerite’s doing.
She added these while I was grabbing the more practical things, while Lorenzo stood by the door refusing to look at me.
These are what she meant by “appropriate for evening.”
And something else. Small. Wrapped in tissue at the bottom of the bag.
The shape unmistakable. I unwrap it, stare at it, and shove it in the back of the drawer before my face catches fire.
Marguerite has either a wicked sense of humor or a very specific idea of what a woman surrounded by Santoro men might need.
Jeans and a clean shirt would be smarter. Show up as exactly who I am. A temporary guest, a tool, a means to an end.
Instead, I pull the dark fabric off its hanger. He’s been avoiding me. Fine. Let him avoid this.
The silk slides over my skin like water. Cool against curves I’ve spent years hiding under hoodies and borrowed T-shirts. I find the zipper, wrestle it up, and turn to face the glass.
Dark hair loose around my shoulders instead of scraped back in a ponytail. Olive skin glowing against the deep blue. The cut fits like Marguerite knew my measurements before I walked in.
I look like a woman who belongs in this world. Good.
The hallway is quiet as I make my way toward the dining room. My heels click against marble, a foreign sound after days of bare feet. I round the corner and nearly collide with someone.
“Oh!” The woman steps back, steadying herself. Dark hair, warm eyes, scrubs exchanged for a soft blue dress. She looks me up and down, and a smile breaks wide. “You must be Isabella.”
Giada Santoro. The healer. I’ve seen her from a distance, but we’ve never spoken.
“And you’re Giada.”
“Gia.” She waves off the formality. “Only people who are in trouble call me Giada.” Warmth in every word. “And you’re the one who’s been making my brother act like a human being for the first time in years.”
My cheeks heat up. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Mm-hmm.” She loops her arm through mine like we’ve known each other forever, steering me toward the dining room. “He brought you coffee yesterday. Unprompted. Do you know how many times Lorenzo has brought anyone coffee in the last decade?”
“I assume not many.”
“Zero. The answer is zero.” She squeezes my arm. “Rosa nearly had a heart attack.”
She’s treating me like family instead of a prisoner with a particular skill set.
“You look stunning, by the way.” Gia pulls back to examine me, and her smile turns knowing. “That is a weapon. Who are you trying to kill?”
“No one.”
“Liar.” But she says it without judgment. “Come on. Let’s go see him lose his mind.”
The dining room is chaos and warmth, a family energy I stopped believing existed years ago.
Rosa bustles between the kitchen and the table, directing traffic like a general.
Cassia is setting out wine glasses, elegant in cream.
Marco is already seated, leg bouncing, hungry energy contained by nothing.
Nico leans against the wall, drink in hand, tracking everything with an easy smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Dante sits at the head of the table. When we enter, his gaze flicks to me, assessing and quick. Then his mouth curves, just a fraction, and he looks toward the doorway behind me.
I know before I turn around.
Lorenzo is there. Dark shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looks like he hasn’t slept.
He spots me and stops. Just stops. His whole body goes rigid. I catch every frame of it. His hand freezing on the doorframe. His mouth pressing flat. His gaze dragging down the midnight silk like he can’t help himself, tracking every curve, every inch of skin the neckline reveals.
I hold my ground. Lift my chin. His throat moves as he swallows.
“Renzo.” Rosa appears at his elbow, patting his arm. “Don’t just stand there blockin’ the door, cher. Come sit. Food’s gettin’ cold.”
He moves like a man wading through water. Slow. Deliberate. He doesn’t look away until he rounds the table and takes his seat.
Across from mine. Of course.
“Isabella, dawlin’, sit, sit.” Rosa guides me to my chair, directly in Lorenzo’s eyeline. “You look beautiful. Don’t she look beautiful, Renzo?”
Silence. His knuckles are white around his water glass.
“He’s speechless,” Nico says, sliding into his seat. “That’s a compliment coming from Lorenzo. Most words you’ll get out of him all night.”
“Leave him alone,” Gia says, but she’s smiling.
“I’m just saying.” Nico gestures with his wine glass. “The man has a vocabulary of twelve words on a good day. If he’s down to zero, that says it all.”
Marco snorts. “Remember when he didn’t talk to anyone for three days after the Valentino thing?”
“That was different,” Dante says. “He was concussed.”
“Same energy, though.”
I glance at Lorenzo. He’s staring at his plate like it owes him money. His fork stills against the plate. His shoulders are a rigid line.
Rosa starts serving. Gumbo thick with sausage and shrimp. Fresh bread, still warm from the oven. Greens that smell like butter and bacon.
“Eat, eat.” She puts an extra portion on my plate. “You’re too skinny, cher. All of you. Nobody eats enough.”
“That’s biologically impossible given the portions you serve, Nonna,” Nico says.
“Don’t sass me, boy. I changed your diapers.”
“And I’m scarred for life by the memory.”
The banter washes over me. Gia shakes her head at her brothers, fond exasperation in every line of her face.
Marco is already on his second helping. Dante reaches over without looking and tucks a strand of hair behind Cassia’s ear.
She leans into his hand for half a second, eyes closing, and his thumb traces her jaw before it drops back to the table.
Neither of them pauses the conversation.
Like breathing. Like something they’ve done a thousand times and will do a thousand more.
Cassia catches my eye across the table and smiles. Warm. Welcoming. Like she knows exactly what I just saw and isn’t sorry about it.
And Lorenzo’s gaze is on me. Quick glances when he thinks no one notices. His attention drifting to the neckline, to my bare shoulders, to the column of my throat. Every time I move, he follows.
“That color suits you.” I turn. Nico is leaning back in his chair, bright with mischief. “Very sophisticated. Very ‘I am going to ruin someone’s entire evening.’”
“Thank you. I think.”
“It’s a compliment.” He raises his glass. “To the woman who made my brother take notice of something other than a threat.”
Across the table, Lorenzo makes a sound. Low. Rough. A warning that doesn’t need words.
Nico grins. “See? That grunt means he agrees.”
“Nicolas.” Steel from the head of the table.
“What? I’m being supportive.”
“You’re being a pest.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
I take a bite of gumbo to hide my smile. Rich and spicy. Comfort food I haven’t tasted since before Sofia disappeared.
“Good, cher?” Rosa hovers with obvious hope.
“It’s amazing.” Honest. Unguarded. “I haven’t had anything like this since—”
Since my mother used to cook. Before the pills. Before everything fell apart. I don’t finish the sentence.
Rosa pats my shoulder anyway, like she heard what I didn’t say. “You eat here now. Every Sunday. No excuses.”
“I’m not sure I’ll still be here next Sunday.”
“Every Sunday.” No room for argument. “You’re family, dawlin’. Whether you know it yet or not.”
The word catches. Family. Trusting is a luxury I lost years ago. But I want to.
“Speaking of family business.” Dante sets down his fork, and the table goes quiet. The shift is immediate. “Isabella’s work paid off. We have a confirmed location.”
My spine straightens. “The staging warehouse?”
“The analysis you ran narrowed it down. Nico confirmed with his contacts this morning.” Dante nods at his brother. “It’s a staging point. Girls come through the port compound, get processed, then move to the warehouse before transport. The rotation happens every ten days.”
“Sofia.” Her name escapes me. “If the timing is right, she could be there right now.”
“It’s possible.” Dante is careful. Measured. “We’re moving tomorrow night. Lorenzo leads the team. Nico runs intelligence. Marco handles perimeter.”
Tomorrow night. After three years of searching, tomorrow night.
“I’m coming.”
The words roll out before I think them through. Silence crashes over the table.
“No.” Lorenzo. One word. Flat. Final. The first thing he’s said directly to me in two days.
“This is my intel. My sister.”
“Isabella.” Dante cuts through. “He’s right. This is a combat operation. You’re an asset, not a soldier.”
“You’re a hacker.” Lorenzo, strained. “Not a soldier. You stay here.”
“I found her.”